Charlie Renfrew, black sheep at your service.
I’ve done the rounds to be social, poured drinks, which the outrageously gendered roles in the Renfrew entertaining routine permits me to do. In fact, demands. I like getting to work in the kitchen, but my mother won’t have it. Especially not on a Sunday when people are over.
“Hi.” I slip into the kitchen, where my father is carving the roast. The only other authorized carver is Michael. “What can I do to help?”
My mother lifts her head. Her dark hair is perfectly coiffed, even with the cooking, and she wears a spotless apron. “Charles. Would you ask everyone what they would like to drink with dinner?” she asks.
“Everyone still has their drinks from before. Aunt May’s had two G&Ts, dreaming of summer,” I offer by way of explanation, but she’s not having it. “And the food’s not out yet, which is when I was planning to do the rounds again.”
“Dinner’s served in two minutes. Please make sure everyone’s seated and do pour the wine. Did you ring Michael to see if he’s stranded at the station? He’s late. I wonder if I should hold lunch,” she muses as she dresses a salad. “Maybe we should wait.”
“He just texted. Lawyering emergency. Can’t make it. Regrets and all of that.”
She tuts like Great Aunt May. Clearly, the tut is genetic and passes down through the generations. I probably do it too.
“Lawyering emergency?” Mum asks finally.
“Yes. Coincidentally, I swear I have a barista emergency at the café…”
Which is about when I have an unbidden memory of yesterday’s exchange at the café with Ben. And how hot he looked with that colorful striped scarf and bleached blond hair. He could probably wear rags and still look good, all angles and more charisma than what’s healthy or tolerable when ordering a coffee.
A sigh of longing escapes me.
“Go pour,” she says sternly, gesturing at the door with a wooden salad fork, bringing me back to the present, despite my best efforts to will myself elsewhere. “Everyone else is here?”
“Everyone else is here,” I confirm with a nod, finally straightening. “Seated and ready for lunch.”
The rest of the guests are family friends and a business associate of my father’s. Laughter bubbles from the other room among the din of conversations. My parents both love dinner parties and they have it down to an art. Michael’s enviable absence is muddling Mum a bit, and she’s somewhat put out. But Michael’s the good son, so he can get away with it.
Mum shakes her head at me. “And remove the setting for Michael.”
“Will do,” I call over my shoulder as I head back into the lion’s den to follow her instructions. Wine’s poured. Now, everyone has three drinks at the ready, including their water glasses, cocktails, and the freshly poured wine.
Showtime.
My father carries in the roast to the usual coos of satisfaction. Plates are passed to the left. Gravy is ladled. Everything is characteristically bland and I go wild with the pepper. Silently, I pass the pepper mill over to Delores, who follows suit.
Dinner conversation soon unavoidably and unfortunately turns to Christmas plans.
Mum looks at me. “You’ll stay the week, won’t you?”
I blink. “No. I mean, I have plans too.”
“What plans?” She frowns.
“You know what plans. Remember? I’ve told you before. I’ll come for Christmas Eve dinner, then I’ll go to Wales to see Carys for Christmas Day. Then I’ve got work back in London.”
“Charles. It’s Christmas.” Mum’s dismayed. The thin line of my father’s mouth tugs ever so slightly downward. He strokes his salt and pepper beard, perfectly groomed. “Christmas means family.”
Inwardly, I sigh. Here we go. Outwardly, I hold my ground.
In therapy, I’ve gone through the importance of staying calm in these situations. “Yes. Which is why I’ll see you and everyone here, then go to Wales.”
“Charles, you can’t do that—” Mum starts.
My face burns as I ball up my fists, the promise of a panic attack gripping my stomach.
One, two, three…I count.
